


Henry Clay takes some L's

by cyanloversupreme



Category: Political RPF - US 19th c.
Genre: why did i do this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanloversupreme/pseuds/cyanloversupreme
Summary: Henry Clay is nursing his wounds over the loss of yet another presidential election via day drinking when in walks none other than John C Calhoun (modern au)





	Henry Clay takes some L's

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at like 2AM after begging my friend who doesn't write to write me a fic, so the quality is probably v poor and v inaccurate and for that I would like to apologize. Also sorry about how horrible the title is, but like Henry Clay took enough presidential election L's that they probably began to compress into something really dense just due to the sheer weight of L's. Like that amount of L's would compress into some W's, like how coal compresses into diamonds. Sorry. I really tired. I need sleep. Also this feels horribly subsidiary the more and more I think about it so like. I'm sorry.

Another year, another Presidential election defeat for Henry Clay. It was the afternoon of the day after the election, and he was already ready to lose himself somehow. He’d spent this go-round of loss in a random bar on a random side of town, staring into a random television program that was not of remote importance to him. _Three failed attempts at a position weren’t exactly sparkling on the resume_ , he thought darkly, turning to the person sitting next to him.

“Can I buy you a drink?” Clay said to the young man sitting next to him. _Maybe I can sleep away the pain_ , he thought. The man next to him was young, handsome, and best of all, without a date.

“No thanks,” the man said, attempting to avoid the sniffling stranger he had the misfortune of sitting next to. The man got up and walked away.

 _Well so much for that_.

Clay wildly glanced around the bar, attempting to find something (or someone) to do. Unfortunately, his eyes happened to settle on the opening door. In walked John C Calhoun, his least favorite person. If Clay had to pick the person he _didn’t_ want to nurse his bruised ego around, the first person would be Andrew Jackson. However, after that, it would have to be John.

They’d been close at one point, before John’s horrible fucking bank bill and some other regrettable political decisions. They’d gotten to the point where Clay had an entire separate wardrobe that he’d kept at John’s house, but alas, their professions in office won out against their professions of love.

Clay swiftly turned back to facing the other end of the bar, but it was too late. He’d been noticed.

“Fancy seeing you here,” the smarmy asshole said, greeting Clay.

“Rubbing it in much?” Clay said, resentfully. He’d just wanted to enjoy his beer in peace.

“Only enough,” John responded, to be met with an upset huff out of Clay’s mouth. “Beer and not Whiskey?”

“It’s not a good night.”

“Mmmm. So it isn’t.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, the loudspeakers playing faintly over the ambient din of the establishment. Finally, Clay turned to John.

“Want to get wasted?” He asked.

“Henry. We have work tomorrow,” John said.

“So?” Clay responded petulantly. He knew he’d be horribly hungover the next day, but it didn’t matter in the present.

“Henry.”

“John.”

“Just one drink.”

Three horrible shots of tequila later, Clay was staring into John’s eyes. They seemed so infinitely beautiful to him in such an ineffable way. They could’ve contained galaxies if simply given the opportunity.

A far soberer John (who’d only indulged in a sip of the first shot) was attempting to stop the drunken Clay from doing anything excessively stupid. He was only halfway successful. Fortunately for him, it was only 3pm, so there weren’t very many patrons present.

Finally, he managed to drag Clay into his car, and drive him back to John’s house. The traffic wasn’t horrible, and because Anna Marina was staying at her mother’s house that week, his expansive townhouse was empty. He parked and then turned to extricate Clay from his car when he hit a roadblock.

“Goddamnit, wake up,” he said, attempting to shove Clay awake.

Clay looked…far less attractive asleep. For starters, his blonde hair was sticking out in tufts and he was breathing through his mouth. Not a good look.

After a few minutes, he managed to extricate the now half-awake Clay out of the car and to cajole him into John’s apartment.

“John,” Clay slurred sleepily.

“Henry,” John responded resolutely.

“Fuck,” Clay said, slumping onto John’s couch.

“Hm?”

“It’s just. You look so attractive. I’d love to sleep with you.”

“Hm,” John replied. “You look so drunk. I’d love to let you sleep this off on my couch.”

 

 “Hey,” Clay said, sitting up on John’s couch, wrapped in a strange blanket.

“Hey yourself,” John said. He hated how attractive he found Clay, and hated even more that Clay reciprocated his feelings. He couldn’t do this again—hell maybe he’d sacrificed the fidelity of his marriage to be with this man (eventually leading to a divorce), but it didn’t mean he could deal with being with Clay again.

“What time is it,” Clay said, groggily.

“About 9:00 PM,” John said. “You slept for a while.”

“You don’t say,” Clay said.

“Mmmmm.”

“Shit. I missed the train home.”

“Can’t you just take the next one out?” John said.

“It’s not for another hour. And I am _not_ taking a ride from you. I refuse to be even seen near you,” Clay sniffed.

“And who drove you here? From what was possibly the worst bar in the city?” John said. He felt blood rush to his face.

“How noble of you Mr. Fox News,” Clay said.

“Fuck you, I don’t even watch Fox News, I read politico,” John said.

“Mmmmhm,” Clay retorted.

“Fine, do whatever you want. But don’t pretend you have feelings for me just because I’m fun to play with,” John said.

“What?” Clay said, clearly with no recollection in his eyes.

“Oh,” John said, softly.

“Seriously, what did I say?” Clay said, scrambling.

“Hm. Something about how badly you want to sleep with me,” John said.

“Fuck,” Clay said.

“Expletive today, aren’t we?” John said, sitting down next to Clay.

“I. I’m so sorry,” Clay said. “I. I didn’t mean to hit on you, it’s just a feeling I’ve had, but I won’t try to act on it don’t worry, I mean I_.”

Clay was cut off by a long, drawn-out kiss on the behalf of John.

When they woke up again, it was to the sound of John’s alarm clock. A shrill, old fashioned contraption, it rang out until John reached over Clay to turn it off.

“Old fashioned. Just like it’s owner,” Clay said, not resisting an opportunity to jab John.

“Good morning,” John said, laying back down.

“Hm. So we did sleep together after all,” Clay said, sleepily. He curled up against John, eager for the source of warmth. Both ignored what the alarm had implored them to do, opting instead to return to their original position.

They had lain there for a while when another alarm, this time on Clay’s phone, rang out.

“Yes. And you have a meeting with Ways and Means in an hour, according to this alarm, so I would suggest that you get ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Haha so my gov textbook mentioned Henry Clay in literally one sentence and then I was like hm. I should research him more. And then I fell down a rabbit hole.


End file.
